


lose my mind

by seventhstar



Series: A/O 'verse [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Confusion, Lust, M/M, Nasch Is Oblivious, No actual sex, One-Sided Attraction, just durbe being a huge weenie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Durbe isn't sure which is worse: his shameful reaction to his first battle, or his shameful lust for his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lose my mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rangerhitomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/gifts).



Durbe throws up after their first skirmish.

Privately, of course, he waits until the battle is over and the camp has been pitched and no one will miss him if he goes into the woods, alone. No one notices when he is out of sight of the tents and down on his hands and knees and vomits until he’s heaving and shaking and crying.

There’s blood under his nails. There’s blood on his blade. He’d cut down a man who hadn’t expected it, and seen the light go out of his eyes. He’s read poetry about the glory of battle; none of it had described _this._

His mouth tastes vile. He stays there on the ground, filthy and alone and grieving, for an eternity.

He’s still wearing his sword and he wants to hurl it into the sea. But if he did, Durbe thinks grimly, then what he has just done will be worthless.

_You trained for this._

“Durbe?”

“Your highness,” Durbe mumbles, just in case Nasch isn’t alone. He doesn’t trust his sense of smell right now. But Nasch snorts in response, so he must be. “What is it?”

“There might be stragglers.”

“So you left camp alone.”

“I’m not alone now.” Nasch crouches down beside him. His brow is creased in worry, belying his scowl. He puts his hand gently on Durbe’s back.

Durbe killed a man defending him. It was easy as breathing at the time.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Nasch doesn’t respond to that. He leaves his hand where it is and with the other he offers Durbe his canteen. Durbe rinses his mouth first, spits into the dirt, before he allows himself the pleasure of a drink. The water is warm, metallic, but it soothes the burn in Durbe’s throat.

“The smell will attract predators.”

“You should go.”

Nasch ignores him. Durbe doesn’t really expect him to go anywhere.

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve when a search of his pockets doesn’t yield a handkerchief. Durbe always carries a handkerchief, and somehow this small deviation from normality is worse than the blood on his armor that is still gleaming and wet and worse than the way Nasch’s scent brings up the old shame of being weak somewhere where an omega might see.

He stands up again and suppresses the feeling; if Nasch even suspected he felt that way, he would...he would…

Well, he wouldn’t respect Durbe anymore, and right now Nasch’s non-judgment of him vomiting after battle like a little boy is all he has.

“We won,” Nasch says.

“Did we?” Durbe asks. And then, before he can help himself, “Will it get easier?”

“Yeah.”

He sounds very sure. It isn’t Nasch’s first skirmish, Durbe knows; because he’s the prince, he’s been attacked while traveling more than once in the past, even when he’s accompanied by the finest guards the kingdom can offer. But that was years ago.

Nasch must see the confusion in his face. “I killed someone before.”

“Ah.”

Durbe wants, very badly, to ask exactly when, but he’s aware that part of this is him wanting to know if this was before sterilization, or after. And he knows it shouldn’t matter, that he should stop looking for differences between that Nasch and this Nasch.

He can’t help himself.

“When…?”

Nasch doesn’t answer. He looks distant.

“We should return to camp.” Durbe scrapes at the drying blood on his chest. “You’ll be missed.”

“Tch.”

They start walking. Durbe is nervous; every sound is threatening and he keeps jumping when he steps on twigs. It’s unseemly behavior for a knight.

Nasch pretends not to notice this.

“They taught us how to kill,” Durbe murmurs, “but not how we’d get the mettle for it.”

“Did you just admit there was something you didn’t learn in training?”

“Didn’t you fall off your horse and almost die once?”

“Shut up,” Nasch says. He laughs, though.

Durbe sees the tents of camp up ahead, in the gaps between the trees. He can hear the sound of the others talking. His commander will want to know what’s wrong with him, won’t he?

“Everyone throws up the first time,” Nasch mutters. “Go report in.”

“Don’t wander off without a guard,” Durbe tells him, and then he takes off for the commander’s tent before Nasch can retort.

He feels a little better.

+++++

Someone in the tent next to him is having sex.

Durbe jerks awake after a nightmare he can’t remember, and while he’s pouring water out of his canteen onto a washcloth to wipe his clammy face he catches the scent and hears the faint moan.

He doesn’t know who they are, but they’re not being quiet enough. He lies back down, but he can’t sleep.

He wishes, idly, that he was as lucky as they are, and from there his mind goes, naturally, to Nasch, and then there’s no chance of rest at all. Here it is, that mixture of shame and desire that comes from wanting and being unable to have.

Is Nasch lying awake, listening to this, smelling it, too? Do sterilized omegas even get aroused? Is Durbe a bad person for wondering this?

Exercise will do him good. Durbe reaches for his cloak and his boots, and slides silently out of the tent. He’s already got his sword belted on.

He leaves the campsite and tracks down the nearest stream. The noise of the water and the sounds of the night block out the presence of his fellow knights and soldiers. Durbe breathes deeply, twigs and mast crunching underfoot, and sighs.

He wishes Nasch was less, and he wishes he were more, and he wishes he had the strength to go somewhere else and he wishes he had the strength to stay.

Instead he is just here, and Nasch is a mystery he cannot puzzle out.

He refills his canteen at the stream. There are bears out here, he guesses. Deer, wolves, squirrels, rabbits, all kinds of birds. Good hunting, if they’re camped out for a few days. He focuses on the noise of bugs and the cries of owls, and stares at the reflection of moonlight on the stream, and doesn’t think about anything else.

He almost misses the sound of Nasch’s footsteps behind him. But the scent gives him away.

And brings back all the thoughts Durbe has just spent so many minutes exorcising.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I have a lot on my mind.” Durbe shrugs. “You should try it sometime.”

Nasch punches him in the arm. “Tch.”

He watches Nasch kneel down to drink from the stream; Durbe can see a sliver of the back of his neck, pale and white. When he stands back up his mouth is wet.

Durbe does not swallow, but it takes effort.

He spends most of his time with Nasch, willingly, and now when he wants desperately to be alone Nasch is inescapable. Is this a punishment, for his lust or his prejudices or something?

_Or something,_ Durbe hopes, as Nasch wipes his mouth carelessly on the back of his sleeve and stares down into the water.

“What is it?”

Nasch shrugs. He doesn’t look at Durbe as he answers. “Nothing.”

“I’ve seen you in the mornings,” Durbe says. Unspoken is the one time Nasch drifted off and fell into the ocean during his morning prayers. “ _Nothing_ wouldn’t keep you from your sleep.”

“These bandits killed women and children.”

Durbe freezes.

“They’re my people. I should be able to…”

He’s lusting after Nasch and Nasch is worrying that the people he is meant to rule are suffering. Durbe looks up at the stars and asks his childhood gods, silently, for forgiveness.

_Don’t look at him,_ he tells himself as Nasch refills his canteen and drags him back towards the campsite. _You have a duty to serve him, not your own desires._

+++++

After the third and fourth kills, Durbe stops keeping count. He fights without thinking about it. They win the battle, arrest the remaining bandits, and set up their victory camp before their long march home.

Nasch is beside him as the fire is lit and the prisoners are chained. He hands Durbe his flask, which smells strongly of wine, and claps him on the back.

He looks relieved. Runners have been sent to ascertain the state of the nearest villages; but it seems to Durbe, from the battle they’ve just endured, that the problem of the bandits in this part of the empire is over. Durbe drinks from the flask and squashes down the feeling of pride welling up deep inside.

“Well done, your highness,” he says.

Nasch hits him and wanders off to supervise.

Durbe goes to set up tents and prepare dinner. Even though he’s a knight, no one tries to tell him he’s too good to do any work. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Nasch speaking to the prisoners, one hand on the hilt of his blade, jaw set tightly.

Durbe hopes they cower before him.

There’s no time to speak to Nasch and find out if that is the case, however. He is given the first shift after the evening meal to guard the prisoners, and Nasch dines with the officers in their tent, and then Durbe is alone. The night is lit only by a single torch and the dying embers on the fire and the stars.

He settles in and listens to the clink of iron on iron. Let the bandits grumble. If they try to escape, Durbe will show them why he, a commoner with nothing to recommend him, is a knight of the Poseidon Lands.

But no one attempts anything, and he is relieved at the end of his shift by a fellow knight.

Durbe returns to his tent, to his cold bedroll. He undresses and buckles his weapon over his clothes again and lies down.

He does not miss Nasch after only a half day apart. He doesn’t.

But when he sleeps he sees him in his dreams.

_Such perfect skin you have,_ Durbe thinks, as he sits back and Nasch undresses. Every inch of it is unmarked, without blemishes or moles or scars. Something about it is strange, but Durbe dismisses the feeling because there is the outline of muscle across Nasch’s stomach, the fine trail of purple hair beneath his hips —

He looks like a drawing out of the fairytales Durbe read as a child. He looks like he should always have a weapon in hand and armor on his shoulders. He looks, in short, like nothing Durbe ever thought he would desire.

He reaches out a hand. The tips of his fingers brush Nasch’s shoulder, warm like a summer afternoon, and Durbe’s hand burns —

He jerks awake, panting and hard and horribly aware of his own aroused scent. Mercifully, the other knights in his tent are all fast asleep, or polite enough to pretend they are.

He prays he didn’t call out Nasch’s name in his sleep.

“Urgh,” Durbe grumbles before he rolls over and buries his face into the folded cloak he’s using as a pillow. It smells faintly of blood and for a moment he sees the face of a man he killed yesterday —

He shudders and tells himself it was for Nasch, so it’s alright.

+++++

Durbe wants to avoid Nasch in the morning, knowing Nasch knows him well enough to see the shame in his eyes.

But Nasch is seething, so Durbe goes to defuse him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nasch.” Durbe nudges him with his elbow. “You’re terrifying the others.”

“You’re not terrified.”

Durbe snorted. “You’re afraid of onions.”

“I am not afraid of —”

“Nasch.”

“They were talking about fucking Merag.” Nasch spits the words out. “I should wring their necks — how dare they — ”

“It’s just talk.”

“It’s not just talk. She’s still eligible for marriage until the Head Priestess confirms her vows. If something happens to her —”

“Nothing will happen to her.” Durbe puts a hand on Nasch’s arm. “She’s too talented for the Head Priestess to refuse her. She’ll be confirmed soon enough.”

And no one will dare speak disrespectfully of a priestess of the gods. It is one thing to joke about an omega princess, whose whole purpose was to marry and have children to carry on the line. It is crude, but it’s common enough. But to disrespect a priestess is to risk a curse from her patron god.

Durbe isn’t sure if he believes in any gods, but he definitely believes in Merag’s wrath. He’s been called uptight and prudish more than once for refusing to participate in conversations about sex, but frankly, having known Merag since she was a child, he doesn’t want to test his luck.

(Besides, Merag is pretty, but she is no _Nasch._ )

“You shouldn’t let petty things bother you.” Durbe lets his fingers drag up Nasch’s arm, in a motion that feels like a mockery of comfort. “It’s unbecoming of a prince.”

Nasch swallows down his temper — he’s still a little flushed with anger, jaw set, teeth grinding — and barks orders at the nearest men.

The company will be setting out soon, to march back to the palace victorious. No doubt there will be a celebration, to mark Nasch’s bravery and leadership, and he and Nasch will drink too much wine. Then Nasch will tease him for refusing to dance and complain that battle is nothing and pretend that he isn’t frightened of responsibility.

Durbe both looks forward to all this and dreads it. He is glad, at least, to get out of these woods; he suspects he’ll associate the smell of the forest with his own lust for a long time.

As they begin marching, he rides beside Nasch. He imagines the smell of blood and the screams of men fading behind him. He imagines all the feelings he does not want to have sinking deep into the stream and being washed away.

Nasch complains about the disrespect shown to Merag the entire way home.

If he’s really complaining about something else, well, Durbe doesn’t listen too closely.

 


End file.
